discussed in this way.
“Matthias knows prison procedure, and Nina can handle any guards without a noisy fight. Your job is to keep them from killing each other.”
“Because I’m the diplomat of the group?”
“There is no diplomat of the group. Now listen,” Kaz said. “The rest of the prison isn’t like the holding area. Patrols in the cellblock rotate every two hours, and we don’t want to risk anyone sounding an alarm, so be smart. We coordinate everything to the chiming of the Elderclock. We’re out of the cells right after six bells, we’re up the incinerator and on the roof by eight bells. No exceptions.”
“And then what?” asked Wylan.
“We cross to the embassy sector roof and get access to the glass bridge through there.”
“We’ll be on the other side of the checkpoints,” said Matthias, unable to keep a hint of admiration from his voice. “The guards on the bridge will assume we passed through the embassy gate and had our papers scrutinized there.”
Wylan frowned. “In prison uniforms?”
“Phase two,” said Jesper. “The fake.”
“That’s right,” said Kaz. “Inej, Nina, Matthias, and I will borrow a change of clothes from one of the delegations—and a little something extra for our friend Bo Yul-Bayur when we find him—and stroll across the glass bridge. We locate Yul-Bayur and get him back to the embassy. Nina, if there’s time, you’ll tailor him as much as possible, but as long as we don’t trigger any alarms, no one is going to notice one more Shu among the guests.”
Unless Matthias managed to get to the scientist first. If he was dead when the others found him, Kaz couldn’t hold Matthias responsible. He’d still get his pardon. And if he never managed to separate from the group? A shipboard accident might still befall Yul-Bayur on the journey back.
“So what I’m getting from this,” said Jesper, “is that I’m stuck with Wylan.”
“Unless you’ve suddenly acquired an encyclopedic knowledge of the White Island, the ability to pick locks, scale unscalable walls, or flirt confidential information out of high level officials, yes. Besides, I want two sets of hands making bombs.”
Jesper looked mournfully at his guns. “Such potential wasted.”
Nina crossed her arms. “Let’s say this all works. How do we get out?”
“We walk,” Kaz said. “That’s the beauty of this plan. Remember what I said about guiding the mark’s attention? At the embassy gate, all eyes will be focused on guests coming into the Ice Court. People leaving aren’t a security risk.”
“Then why the bombs?” asked Wylan.
“Precautions. There are seven miles of road between the Ice Court and the harbor. If someone notices Bo Yul-Bayur is missing, we’re going to have to cover that territory fast.” He drew a line in the snow with his walking stick. “The main road crosses a gorge. We blow the bridge, no one can follow.”
Matthias put his head in his hands, imagining the havoc these low creatures were about to wreak on his country’s capital.
“It’s one prisoner, Helvar,” said Kaz.
“And a bridge,” Wylan put in helpfully.
“And anything we have to blow up in between,” added Jesper.
“Everyone shut up,” Matthias growled.
Jesper shrugged. “Fjerdans.”
“I don’t like any of this,” said Nina.
Kaz raised a brow. “Well, at least you and Helvar found something to agree on.”
* * *
Farther south they traveled, the coast long gone, the ice broken more and more by slashes of forest, glimpses of black earth and animal tracks, proof of the living world, the heart of Djel beating always. The questions from the others were ceaseless.
“How many guard towers are on the White Island again?”
“Do you think Yul-Bayur will be in the palace?”
“There are guard barracks on the White Island. What if he’s in the barracks?”
Jesper and Wylan debated which kinds of explosives might be assembled from the prison laundry supplies and if they could get their hands on some gunpowder in the embassy sector. Nina tried to help Inej estimate what her pace would have to be to scale the incinerator shaft with enough time to secure the rope and get the others to the top.
They drilled each other constantly on the architecture and procedures of the Court, the layout of the ringwall’s three gatehouses, each built around a courtyard.
“First checkpoint?”
“Four guards.”
“Second checkpoint?”
“Eight guards.”
“Ringwall gates?”
“Four when the gate is non-operational.”
They were like a maddening chorus of crows, squawking in Matthias’ ear: Traitor, traitor, traitor.
“Yellow Protocol?” asked Kaz.
“Sector disturbance,” said Inej.
“Red Protocol?”
“Sector breach.”
“Black Protocol?”
“We’re all doomed?” said Jesper.
“That about covers it,” Matthias said, pulling his hood tighter and trudging ahead. They’d